Book of Accounts [Instalment #9]

Abdul Rahman locked the drawers of his steel desk and put on his leather jacket. An unusually cold rain had been falling all night, spreading chilliness and mud throughout Baghdad. Clouds obscured the normally intense summer sun. Leaving his office he walked outside where Aziz, his oldest friend, was leaning against his motorcycle listening intently to the first news bulletin of the day. He motioned Abdul Rahman to be quiet and to join him on the motorcycle.

‘The state of emergency will remain in effect until further notice. All citizens are notified that the curfew currently in place will be extended from four p.m. to six a.m. and will be enforced with shoot-to-kill orders. Only personnel involved in official capacities and selected medical personnel will be allowed to move during these hours. The Emergency Law and Order Administrator, answering directly to the RCC, is charged with the enforcement of the curfew and all further proclamations. As of midnight all Governorate and city governments are dismissed and are replaced with ad hoc Security Committees. The office of Prime Minister will remain vacant until further notice.’

Aziz fidgeted with the small radio, moving the antenna about as if trying to make contact with flies. Abdul Rahman stopped his arm. His voice was filled with panic. ‘A new Prime Minister? What has happened to Haider Younus? Who is this new Administrator? What has happened?’

Aziz raised a finger to his lips and made a shushing sound.

‘All universities, colleges and other institutions of education will remain closed until further notice. The Emergency Law and Order Administrator appeals to all students and teachers to desist from non-educational activities or risk severe repercussions. All citizens are forbidden to leave the country. All citizens providing aid and assistance to the following renegade groups are ordered to cease such assistance, otherwise be liable for severe repercussions: the National Relief Committee, the Flag of Justice, the Party of God, the National Democratic Party, the People’s League, the Committee for the Cessation of Human Rights Abuses, the traitor Petros Zalil…’

The bulletin continued buzzing like an irritating mosquito.

Abdul Rahman could no longer sit quietly listening to the radio announce the destruction of the world. ‘Aziz, tell me, what is all this? Is this some joke? What is all this nonsense about Law and Order Administration? What happened to Haider Younus, the Prime Minister?’

‘He’s been arrested.’

‘Who has been arrested? You mean Haider Younus? The Prime Minister has been arrested? But he’s my relative…this is impossible. Who has arrested him? How can they arrest the Prime Minister? They can sack him, or he can die, or resign, but on whose authority has he been arrested? It is not logical, Aziz.’ Abdul Rahman was desperate to hear from his friend that what he dreaded was not true.

‘The Emergency Law and Order Administrator has arrested him,’ said Aziz who was now scanning the dial for more news. ‘I suppose you can say that we have arrested the Prime Minister. For after all, it is our General Petros Zalil who is the cause of his troubles.’ Aziz fished in his leather jacket for a pack of cigarettes. Abdul Rahman watched smoke hug the contour of Aziz’s face. ‘We should be pleased. Our ship has come in. It is our team that has won, Abdul Rahman. The secret organisations are now in charge of this country. No more worrying about the generals in the army, or that fool of a Prime Minister. You should see the way people will cringe before us after today. We are in charge now, my friend.’

‘How can you say we are in charge? I feel as if I have nothing. What do you mean? What is this about Petros Zalil? It is not normal. It is against the regulations and rules governing the structure of the state. The Prime Minister is appointed by the President. What does General Zalil have to do with such matters?’ Abdul Rahman found it hard to slow his mind; his temples wanted to explode with questions.

‘My friend,’ Aziz chuckled, ‘where have you been living for the past twelve months? What rules and regulations are you talking of? The only rules you know are the ones you live by in your head. The rest of the people in this country have been trying to make new rules every day for the past year. The Prime Minister is in jail. He may even be here.’ Aziz flicked the ash from his cigarette towards the ugly oblong concrete buildings behind them. ‘The head of Party Intelligence, Petros Zalil, has shat on the structure of state, or whatever you call it. I’m sure Saddam will twist some tails now.’ Aziz smiled at the thought.

Abdul Rahman became numb. His body was like wax. He walked away from Aziz without a word. His friend’s excitement was beyond Abdul Rahman’s ability to comprehend. A sickness took hold of his insides and nearly flipped him to the ground. He leaned against his small Suzuki car and breathed deeply for a few minutes, desperate to inhale some understanding. After a few moments he slumped into the seat and drove. At the gate a guard handed him a piece of paper with the word Official scrawled in large blue letters. ‘Put this somewhere where it can be seen. We’ve made the letters as big as possible so it can be read from a distance. You don’t want to dodge bullets on every street.’ He smiled weakly. Abdul Rahman dropped the sign on to the dashboard.

Outside the compound the streets were deserted. Only a few army jeeps scuttled about, like tiny crabs on the beach, ducking into narrow lanes and around corners. Each time he was pulled over and questioned his irritation grew, even though as soon as he showed his identity badge he was saluted and waved through; he felt as if he had been asked to drop his trousers for their pleasure.

Before that day Abdul Rahman had accepted the checkpoints and requests for identification as part of the harmony of daily existence, but now he viewed the soldiers, many of them his acquaintances, as rude, unwanted strangers. They grated against his nerves. The smoke from smouldering tires washed him with a sense of doom. He rubbed his eyes and wished for Baghdad to be as it was yesterday, before the Prime Minister had been arrested. Out of an alleyway a coffin draped in green and gold cloth, bobbed up and down on the shoulders of men; a group of women followed close behind, but their grieving was silent. His own city had become more alien than a remote, horrible country.

XI

How many hours or days had he lain in the oil shed with his hands and legs chained together? Was it still night, or was he asleep? There was a weak empty feeling in his gut; the desire for food made him struggle to a stiff sitting position. It was day. I have been sleeping. Just to be sure he looked around, half-expecting to see Aziz sitting on the boxes with his transistor in one hand and a smoke in the other. A hard piece of bread by his knee held his eye for what seemed minutes. Like a monkey lifting a grub from the earth, he picked it up and put it to his dry tongue. The bread wouldn’t go down the first time; he sucked it slowly, gently coaxing dampness to the surface of his tongue until it became soft and the bread seemed to melt.

Four turbans with rifles scowled at him from the door that creaked open while he was eating. Two grabbed his shoulders, pulled him to his feet, and watched as Abdul Rahman’s legs buckled slightly then gave way. The steel bar running from his ankle to his waist poked deep into his groin as he collapsed, and made him groan. The turbans lifted him again and pushed him forward as if they were his parents and he was an infant taking his first steps. He weaved and nearly fell again but the turbans caught him. With a rifle behind and one in front Abdul Rahman was dragged across the sand to the fat man’s bungalow. Purple and orange bougainvillaea against the stone house reminded Abdul Rahman of Zubi and the ribbons in her hair.

‘Come in, Mr Iraqi Refugee,’ called the fat man from the dark, chilled house. An unseen air conditioner hummed somewhere inside; the turbans were anxious to feel the crisp cool air and dragged their prisoner in immediately. The sudden change from the dark shed, to blinding desert sun and again into a darkened room, was too much for Abdul Rahman’s weak eyes. The fat man was breathing in front of him but Abdul Rahman saw nothing. ‘Kif al haal, ustad?’ the fat man asked in Arabic. ‘Feeling well and healthy?’

Abdul Rahman said nothing. Are they still holding me? Why am I feeling dizzy? His mind prepared itself stupidly, slowly, deliberately for the fall to the floor; he imagined each movement — buckling knees, hands moving up, body twisting round — as if he were connecting the dots of a picture in one of his sons’ art books. But he didn’t fall and slowly the thought came to him, I don’t want to fall again. The floor will be hard. But cool. His mind was a boulder he couldn’t move.

‘How is this, Mr Iraqi Abdul Rahman? Huh?’ The fat man snorted.

I know that smell. The floor is cool. I want to lie on it. The smell reminds me of…kebab. Aziz is this true? Really, Haider is dismissed? I want to eat a kebab.

‘Would you like a taste, huh?’ The fat man was speaking, but Abdul Rahman saw only a dim shadow. ‘Come sit. Join me at the table.’ The fat man snapped something in the local language to a turban who jumped to it, dragged Abdul Rahman to a chair and settled him in. Abdul Rahman tilted sideways like a pile of boxes stacked too high and was heading for the floor when the fat man barked again and a guard’s arm steadied him. The fat man carried on talking. Maybe it was his state of mind or maybe it was the fat man’s poor command of Arabic but Abdul Rahman only heard broken pieces of phrases.

He paid no mind to the fat man and hung his head in a determined effort to gain a sense of balance. When after a few minutes he felt strong enough to lift his face he saw on the table before him dish after dish of food laid out on a white tablecloth, like the range of mountains outside the window of the shed. Bowls of soupy curries. Plates covered with shimmering red tomatoes and the thinnest slices of pink onions. Stacks of long brown bread. More stacks of white round breads. Meat on skewers and a greasy roast chicken. A huge thigh of goat right in the middle. Porcelain platters piled high with rice flecked with peas. Melon cut in squares and whole yellow mangoes next to what appeared to be a thick white pond of yoghurt. Cucumbers and radishes sliced and spread fan-like on a brass lipped plate. And in the back, glistening like light against a mirror, three bottles of ice-cold water, each standing in its own damp circle.

Without thinking, Abdul Rahman reached towards the nearest bowl; the chains holding his wrists together clanked against the table. As if he were swatting an annoying fly the fat man brushed Abdul Rahman’s hands back on to his lap. ‘La! La! Mamnuah! Forbidden, my Iraqi Refugee troublemaker. Forbidden.’

Without blinking, Abdul Rahman continued to take in the plain of food stretching before him. Aromas penetrated him and enveloped him and gladdened him for the first time in days. He was sure he was biting that thick piece of tomato there. He tried again to lift his hands but the chains were too heavy, so he just stared.

A spoon dipped deep into a bowl of curry. Potatoes and peas. Fat fingers broke off a huge piece of brown bread and other fingers from another hand delicately lifted some tomatoes to the plate. Lemon juice squirted down like rain. Square pieces of meat rolled from a skewer. Thick bumpy yoghurt splattered over everything. The fat man could be heard chewing. He masticated his food deliberately, as Abdul Rahman watched his plump childlike lips suck in the food; his jowls quivered excitedly as the food passed from the lips to the cheeks.

The fat man was enjoying his noon time meal and apparently was having difficulty making up his mind whether to eat some rice or just stick to bread. There was a delicate mound of rice on his plate but he only nibbled on it; he made a face as if he were reminding himself to make a point to the cook. Each movement of the fat man’s hand and lips was watched by Abdul Rahman in the same way a dog waits for its master to toss it a piece of gristle.

‘Alhumdulillah. Thanks be to God.’ The fat man belched with resonance from the depths of his full belly. ‘Now, Mr Abdul Refugee from Iraq.’ He squeezed Abdul Rahman’s thin cheeks like he was testing a melon for its freshness. ‘I have news.’

The fat man extricated himself from the tableside, forced his swollen pinkish feet into a pair of undersized plastic bath sandals and shuffled into another room. Abdul Rahman was too tired to turn to see where he had gone. And besides, the half-eaten feast still held his attention.

‘The UN came yesterday. All your friends, the Iranians, have gone to Quetta. Only one is left here in Nushki. Only one. You.’ The fat man clicked his teeth.

‘What will you do with me?’ Abdul Rahman whispered, but he himself wasn’t sure if he had spoken or just thought the question to himself. The fat man was beside him again slicing open the fiery yellow skin of a mango.

‘Huh? Speak up, Mr Iraqi refugee Abdul Rahman sahib.’

‘What will you do now? With me?’

‘Depends. On your attitude. Good attitude may produce happiness. Bad attitude something else.’ The fruit’s stringy pulp dangled from the fat man’s unshaven face.

‘Why did UN leave me here? Was I sleeping?’ Abdul Rahman’s thoughts on the UN had changed. Why did they leave me here with this man? I want to eat that chicken. Untouched. This man is a devil. If UN talk with me I will tell them of my bad treatment. My ledger?

‘They had no Arabic speaker to interview you. Only Mr Gilani came. He speaks only Persian.’ The fat man shrugged as if he didn’t care.

‘I am a refugee. I need a refugee card. Money too. To go from this place.’ Abdul Rahman mumbled.

‘I told Mr Gilani, the UN officer, that they must send someone to interview you by Sunday. Pakistan government can not bear your expense forever, huh?’ The mango lay on his plate like a carcass picked clean by a vulture.

‘The day today?’ Abdul Rahman asked.

‘Wednesday.’

‘If no UN officer comes?’

The fat man squeezed the Arab’s cheeks again. ‘Back to your stinking bloody country. Back to hell. What do I care, huh? But we will not give you hospitality beyond Sunday. Pray to Allah, dear Mr Refugee sahib. Pray that UN will find someone who understands your language.’

The fat man said something to a red turban who saluted him and marched out of the room. Abdul Rahman was shivering in the air-conditioned room, but the fat man was daubing away the sweat from his forehead. The servant returned with Abdul Rahman’s ledger, which he handed to the fat man. The District Commissioner opened the cover and flipped through the carefully constructed book; on several of the pages, as a reminder of his interest, he left behind oily smudges.

‘What is the meaning of this book, huh? These photos are of whom, Mr Iraqi refugee man?’

Abdul Rahman said nothing.

‘When I was a lad I collected butterflies and beetles and other bugs. Pinned each one to paper and labelled them with my best handwriting and a special pen. I maintained a record of each of them as well. Like this book, only smaller, huh?’ The fat man smiled at Abdul Rahman. ‘This is an excellent collection, huh? Who are they?’

Again Abdul Rahman refused to answer. He wanted food. For the first time in his life his ledger held no interest.

‘Big shots, huh,’ the fat man seemed to be talking to himself as he lifted a few more pages. ‘Officials. This one with a military uniform. And here, former Prime Minister Haider Younus. Isn’t this him? Or am I mistaken?’ The fat man tipped the ledger towards Abdul Rahman who did not look. ‘Hey, Mr Abdul Rahman sahib. Refugee from Iraq. Do you always make a habit of ignoring your host? Huh? Eh? Who is this man? The one with the big smile posing by Saddam?’ There was menace in the fat man’s voice.

‘You are right. It is the former Prime Minister. Haider.’ Abdul Rahman croaked.

‘And this? A General?’

‘Brigadier Saad Hamadi. Commander of Republican Guard Southern Region.’

The fat man shut the ledger and grabbed Abdul Rahman’s face as if it were another tasty dish. ‘What is the meaning of this book? Why have you collected these important people? What are they to you?’

‘They are my relatives.’

The reply knocked the wind out of the fat man. For a few minutes he breathed laboriously and then he let loose a mirthless laugh. ‘Prime Minister Haider is your brother, is that it? And Brigadier Saad sahib. Who is he? Your brother-in-law? Don’t lie to me. You are a liar. Tell me the truth, refugee man. Huh!’

‘I have no brother. Haider al Haji Younus was my distant cousin. Brigadier Saad is a relation of my wife’s. This is the truth.’ His voice was barely audible in the whirring of the air conditioning. He lifted his heavy head towards the fat man. ‘I am hungry.’ He returned to his examination of the food.

‘First you tell me who you are. Huh. Huh. And second you tell me why you have collected these famous people in this book. Relatives? And I am the Prophet, peace be upon him. If these people are your relatives why are you so lowly and hiding like a dog in this desert? Why are you afraid of your relatives? Why do you seek protection here and not from them? Do you know what I think you are, Abdul Rahman Baghdadi? Huh!’

‘Please, I am hungry. Will you give me food?’ The fat man pulled his chair closer. With him came a plate of bread and some kebabs.

‘Eat these. Then tell me, huh? Who are you? Tell me then why you are calling yourself a refugee.’ The fat man picked up a piece of meat and lifted it to Abdul Rahman’s mouth. ‘Eat. Then we will talk.’

Abdul Rahman snapped the meat as if he were a wolf. The fat man picked up another and another and pushed them into Abdul Rahman’s mouth. As he gulped down the meat, the fat man continued to talk.

‘You listen. You eat. No problem. I will talk and you listen. You call yourself a refugee, huh? Is that right? Al mohajir?’ The fat man was excited; spit had gathered in the corners of his soft wide mouth. ‘These are not your relatives, huh, Mr Iraqi Abdul Refugee. You are not a refugee. What refugee carries such a book as this?’ He banged his palm flat on the ledger; Abdul Rahman jumped. ‘I have seen hundreds of refugees come through here. They carry photo albums of their families. One or two snaps in their pockets, not an entire library with notes and photos. This is not a refugee’s book. It is a book of someone else. A someone else who has other plans.’

Abdul Rahman stared at his hands. How thin I’ve become. In just one week. If I had moved my knee on the bus as he asked me I would be in Peshawar. Away from this hell.

‘What are your plans, huh? Are you on your way to Europe as well?’ The fat man scratched his ear and sucked in the spittle on his lips.

Abdul Rahman shook his head.

‘Then where are you going? Refugees do not come to Pakistan to stay here. We are what is known as a transit country. Refugees pass through on their way to better places: America, Norway, Germany. France, maybe. But you say no, you do not want to go to these places, Isn’t it? You told me yourself the night of our first interview. Speak, you Arab devil. Answer me. Why have you come to Pakistan? Who are you? You are not a refugee.’

‘I am hungry. I do not know what you are speaking of.’

‘Eat then. Who is stopping you? Eat. Here it is. Meat. Chicken. Rice. All of it. You like rice? Have rice. With peas. This is our special dish. And yoghurt. Eat, eat, refugee man. Eat. Then you will tell me. Everything about why you came here.’ The fat man lifted a spoon to Abdul Rahman’s lips. The food went down in big gulps; the meat unchewed, the tomato slices whole; they were being sucked down a drain. Grains of rice fell into his lap. Everything tasted wonderful. Tears were in Abdul Rahman’s eyes as he leant forward to grab each spoonful of food that the fat man’s chubby hand held before him. More spoons of rice. More spoons of curry. More spoons of yoghurt went down.

‘Should I tell you? Do you think you can fool me, huh? You have come with a secret intention. You did not expect to be caught when you tried to murder one of my men and escape, huh. Escape is easy from Iraq maybe. Not here. Not Pakistan. This is not Iraq, huh.’ He opened the book once more and slapped the pages. ‘These people here, they are not your relatives. Am I donkey to believe such shit?’ The fat man watched Abdul Rahman grimace. His eyes twitched almost imperceptibly. He was uncomfortable and the fat man pressed his argument. ‘You are a spy. Al jasoos in Arabic. You have collected this information here in this book because you intend to do these people harm. Correct? Huh? You do not want to go to the places other refugees want to go, perhaps because you seek allies in Afghanistan. Or even in this country. Isn’t it? You are here to make contact with others and this is the information they are waiting for. You are a spy, Mr Abdul Rahman, huh. Now I understand fully who you are. Not refugee. That is a disguise. You are jasoos. A spy.’

Abdul Rahman struggled to concentrate on the fat man’s words but then the pain kicked in. As if it had received a sudden knife wound Abdul Rahman’s stomach tightened and knotted. What is this? What is happening? He has poisoned me. The Devil. Oh Zubi, I am to die.

Abdul Rahman grimaced and pushed his chained wrists into his stomach. The fat man watched in amazement; a bowl of yoghurt spilled on to the tablecloth as Abdul Rahman fell forward in agony. He cried out and then, in a mighty demonic surge, all that had entered his stomach came out on to his lap and floor. He retched and writhed as if he were possessed by the Devil. ‘Aaaahhhh! What is this pain? Why have you poisoned me?’

*

The pain of having swallowed too much food stayed with Abdul Rahman all evening. Though there was nothing left in his gut, his body convulsed regularly until the sun set and the buses stopped moving and the desert became as quiet as death. Abdul Rahman went into a sleep with the sensation of falling off a mountain ledge. As he fell he saw his friend Aziz and reached out with a hug. All that Aziz said was, ‘Our side has won. People will cringe before us, Abdul Rahman. As they should. Thanks to Petros Zalil.’